


Everybody Asks Me How I Know

by Nonymos



Series: The Marvel Fractions [4]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Archery, Asexual Relationship, Bruce Feels, Cuddling & Snuggling, D/s, Fluff, Fraction's Hawkeye, Hawkguy, Homoromantic Clint, Hulkeye - Freeform, Insecure Clint, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mixed Orientation Couple, Rope Bondage, lots of love and hugs, non-sexual bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3278852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce has never been very good at having a home, feeling safe, or being loved. But Clint makes everything so damn easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like writing another one-shot for the Marvel Fractions' verse, and the beautiful Cristinuke kicked my ass hard enough that I actually did it. ^^ I guess this can be read on its own. I'm really enjoying the exploration of Bruce's and Clint's peculiar dynamics, so there might be more in the near future. Please, enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave a comment if you're so inclined. :)
> 
> A round of applause as always for my wonderful, wonderful beta laurie_ky. Oh, and of course, the video Clint and Kate are nerding about is [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BEG-ly9tQGk).

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey, big guy,” Tony greeted him with a grin. “Rise and shine. Coffee?”

He pushed a mug of black coffee between Bruce’s hands without waiting for his answer. Bruce sighed a little, then pushed it back. “You know I don’t drink coffee, Tony.”

“Right,” Tony said, twirling across the kitchen and grabbing Bruce’s mug to pour it into the one he’d already emptied, “which is really stupid, by the way, I’ve done the math and tea might be even worse than coffee for your—”

“I don’t drink tea with caffeine either,” Bruce answered tiredly. He’d just gotten up and Tony was already exhausting him again. “I’m pretty sure we already had this conversation.”

They had. He’d been at the Tower all week working with Tony on his upcoming Ultron project; Tony had required Bruce’s help specifically and he hadn’t been able to refuse. Tony was a friend—an irritating, reckless, insufferable friend—and at the end of the day, he was the only one not only able but willing to keep up with Bruce. Not to mention that when something interested him, Bruce Banner was worse than Tony when it came to sleep schedules.

So they’d spent four days straight bouncing ideas off each other at high speed, sleeping a few hours at a time only to start working again as soon as they woke up, and Tony still hadn’t internalized the fact that Bruce didn’t drink any goddamn coffee.

Bruce put the kettle on, then sat at the counter, rubbing his eyes with both hands. They’d gone to bed around five am, and it was barely nine in the morning. Tony, of course, didn’t care. Caffeinated jerk.

“Want something to eat, then?” he asked cheerfully. “You look like you could use something to eat. You’re all bones, Banner.”

Bruce knew he was skinny. He hadn't yet regained the weight Ross had made him lose over the past months. And he knew Tony was expressing concern in the only way he knew, but it didn’t help the sharp jolt of green at the back of his mind. He exhaled through his nose.

“I’m good. I’ll eat at home.” He surprised himself a little bit with that last word—at how easily it had come to him. It sounded like nothing, like something people say every day.

Tony whirled round to face him. “You’re going back to Bed-Stuy already? Bruce—Brucie-bear, Brucie-kins, Brucie darling, we’re not _finished.”_

“I need to take a break,” said Bruce, taking out his phone. “And you should, too.” Ironically enough, the Other Guy wouldn’t let him work himself into an early grave anymore. Bruce could feel it in his blood pressure and in his easy headaches; it was time to back off.

 _I’ll be back around noon,_ he texted Clint. _If that’s okay?_

“Sure, take a breather,” Tony said. “Just go to your floor, I can leave you alone for twenty-four hours and—”

“Tony,” Bruce said.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

_awesome_

Then buzzed again.

_i’m at the Avengers renge with kate i can pick u up_

Then again.

_like if u want_

_unless u got stuff to do or stg_

_no pressore is what i mean_

_kate says i should stop talking now_

“Ugh,” Tony said, very loudly. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Bruce said, quickly putting the phone down.

“You’re smiling like a lovesick carebear and it’s disgusting.” Tony made a face. “What _is_ it with you and Barton?”

Bruce got up and grabbed an empty mug, digging through Tony’s scandalous stack of teas to find a Rooibos or an infusion or something.

“I’m not sure what you’re asking,” he said, filling his cup. The hissing steam fogged his glasses and he took them off, then went back to sitting at the counter.

“Sure, Barton’s hot if you’re into that,” Tony said, “and this isn’t me saying he’s dumb or whatever, but—you don’t exactly have a lot in common. I don’t know, it’s—” he waved his hand around. “What do you even _talk_ about with him?”

Bruce stirred his tea and focused on the sun sparkling into his cup. “I don’t see how that’s your business.”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, “I’m just curious. I mean, he can’t be good for your blood pressure. God knows he gets on _my_ nerves half of the time. Is he a god in the sack, what?”

Bruce looked at Tony for a couple of seconds. Then he got up.

“You didn’t even drink your tea,” Tony called. “Where are you going? Did I piss you off?”

 

*

 

Bruce exhaled slowly in the crisp November air, then zipped up his jacket and started walking. It occurred to him that it was probably too thin when a gust of wind chilled him to the bone, but the cold would help him cool off. (He missed his leather jacket. Clint had bought it for him the year before; it was entirely not the type of thing he’d normally wear, but it had been solid and warm. Bruce had worn it all the time, right until Ross took it from him.)

Bruce walked a bit faster, stuffing his hands into his pockets. The Avengers’ range was only four blocks down; Clint usually trained at the smaller, civilian range in Bed-Stuy, and Bruce wondered what had brought him there.

When he reached the building, the cold had burrowed into his lungs and he felt like he was breathing knives; the warm air felt like a blessing and he was only too glad to close the door behind him. There was no one behind the receptionist’s desk; after the old Avengers mansion was destroyed the year before, Tony had installed a version of JARVIS in all Avengers-related buildings to take care of the security.

Bruce was hearing voices and the blunt noises of arrows stabbing into chosen targets. He zipped open his jacket but kept it on, and hesitantly walked into the range. It was empty, save for both Hawkeyes.

“Okay,” Clint was shouting, voice echoing, “let’s do this again!”

He was barefoot and in black sweatpants, with sweat darkening his tank top and glistening on his bare arms. His wrist guards and archery gloves were laced into place, and he was holding the last hi-tech compound bow Tony had made for him—an oddly shaped thing with parts pointing out, stabilizers and laser-guided visors—but he didn’t have his quiver. He was shooting with his right hand and holding his arrows in his left. At the other end of the—frankly immense—range, Kate was throwing plastic balls up in the air for him to shoot.

Clint pinned them all in mid-air—each connecting shot snapping like gunfire—but still scowled when they hit the ground. “Too slow,” he yelled.

He switched his arrows from his bow hand to his draw hand. “Again!”

Kate had picked up the balls; she threw them up into the air again and Clint shot them all down in rapid succession, but fumbled his last draw when the arrows he was holding caught in the bow’s stabilizers.

“Dammit,” he mumbled, then shouted again, “I’m gonna try this with the recurve, just wait a sec.”

He turned round—and almost tripped over his own feet when he saw Bruce hovering by the door.

Then he said, “Bruce!” and his face honest-to-god _lit up—_ and Bruce was hit with full force by the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in over four days. Suddenly, all he wanted was to get closer.

“Wait,” Clint warned, putting down his bow, “I’m all sweaty and disgusting, it’s—” he shut up with a small surprised noise when Bruce tugged him close to kiss him. After a split second of stillness, he wrapped his arms around Bruce’s thin frame and pulled him closer.

Bruce felt himself relax in his grip. He felt solid. He felt _good._

“Jeeze, you’re cold,” Clint mumbled.

“Yeah?” Bruce asked—and before he could think about it, he stuck his icy hands under Clint’s sweat-soaked tank top, making him squeak.

“Cold!” Clint repeated. “You need gloves or something. And a scarf. And a better jacket, Jesus. S’not like we can’t afford them. Have I told you I’m crazy rich?”

“In passing.” Bruce was entirely unable not to smile.

Clint suddenly looked very much alarmed. “Wait—oh _shit,_ is it noon already?” He tried to step back, looking at his phone forgotten on a bench. “Jesus fuck, I’m so sorry, I thought I’d set an alarm—”

“It’s not even ten,” Bruce said, pulling him back in.

“Oh,” Clint said, relief evident in his voice, “okay. Okay.” Then he frowned. “Something, uh, happen with Tony? If you need help hiding a body, let me get Kate out of here first.”

“No, it’s—”

 _“What about that recurve?”_ Kate yelled across the range, voice echoing under the high curved ceiling. When they turned to her, she waved exaggeratedly. _“Hi, Dr. Banner!”_

“Ignore her,” Clint said, but Bruce was stepping back already.

“No, it’s okay. I didn’t want to interrupt your training.”

“I can do this another time,” Clint said. “I’m not gonna make you sit and watch—”

“I’d love to sit and watch,” Bruce cut him off, shrugging off his jacket. “I can wait a couple of hours. I really don’t mind.” He just hoped he wasn't going to fall asleep on the bench.

Clint looked confused. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” Bruce said, smiling again.

“Uh,” Clint said, still looking a bit puzzled. “Okay. Okay, then.” He turned back to Kate. _“Get your bow,”_ he yelled, _“I’ll be right back.”_

He jogged out of the range, and Kate walked across it to grab her bow, folded in a duffle bag by another bench. She then went to Bruce with a smile and an offered hand. “Hi,” she repeated, in a normal tone this time. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks,” Bruce said, shaking her hand. When she plonked herself down next to him on the bench, he stiffened a little—he wasn’t quite used to her yet. But she was, he supposed, a friend. Or she wanted to be.

“So,” she said, apparently intent on not letting any awkwardness settle in, “how was your week off?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Bruce said, scowling a little.

She let out a laugh. “No, I guess not. Tony can be pretty overwhelming.”

Bruce was a little surprised to hear her using Tony’s first name so casually; but he remembered her parents were obscenely rich. Tony and she pretty much came from the same world. It was strangely easy to forget.

“It’s good that you’re back,” she said. “Clint was getting antsy without you. Thank god he had that video to focus on.”

“What video?” Bruce asked mildly. The idea that Clint had actually missed him too shouldn't have been so surprising.

“Some guy dug up ancient archery techniques and posted it on Youtube. Well,” she scowled, “more like, _not-Western archery techniques that are still used nowadays in other parts of the world,_ but you know what I mean. Anyway, we’re playing around with those. Clint’s form’s getting weirder by the minute but the results are pretty great so far.”

“Got it,” Clint said, coming back with a much simpler, much more elegant bow. “You ready, Katie-Kate?”

“Let’s roll!” she said, getting up.

 

*

 

Bruce didn’t know much about archery, but even as a novice, he could see that Clint’s form was, indeed, weirder. He also understood why he was so sweaty—instead of standing there, Clint was running around the range. He was holding his arrows in his bow hand, but sometimes switched them to his draw hand. He also switched hands holding his bow, and his stance had nothing to do with the stiff, poised figures of Olympic archers. But he never missed once.

Then the real challenge began when Clint and Kate started shooting at each other—never injuring each other for a reason that became obvious after the first three shots: they were shooting each other’s arrows in mid-air. One of the arrows fell close enough to Bruce that he could realize it had been severed in half. He had no idea this trick was actually _doable._ They obviously knew what they were doing, but Bruce still had to draw deep breaths to keep his heart rate under control. The Hulk was growing agitated at the back of his mind, insisting Clint was in danger,  _danger danger danger,_ and in the end Bruce got up from his bench and went to stand outside, breathing deeply in the cold.

He closed his eyes for a minute and maybe dozed off where he stood; when he reopened his eyes, it was noon and Clint was standing next to him, with his duffle bag on his shoulder. He’d showered and changed and was ready to leave.

“Bruce,” he asked. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just needed some air.” Bruce smiled at him—he felt a bit sheepish for freaking out.

“Billy Kaplan came by to collect Kate,” Clint said. “They’re gone already.” He looked concerned, but simply said, “Wanna go home?”

Bruce realized there was nothing he wanted more, and nodded with ill-concealed hope. As they started walking down the sidewalk, he realized just how cold he’d gotten—he was shuddering so hard he couldn’t quite hide it. After a minute, his teeth started chattering. He was just going to hunch in on himself when Clint’s arm wrapped around his shoulders to bring him close. “Jesus, Bruce, how long were you standing there?”

“I’m good,” Bruce tried to protest, but it came out weak and wan.

“C’mon.” Clint pulled him along through the cold sharp air, down from the sidewalk and into the warmth of a car; only when he gave his address did Bruce realize it was a taxi. He felt even guiltier—they could have taken the bus—but Clint was already grabbing his hands and sticking them back under his shirt to warm them up.

Bruce stared.

“Seriously, is something wrong?” Clint asked. “Why did you go outside?”

Bruce wanted to say something, something very important, but he felt like his throat was closing up and he uttered an answer to Clint’s question instead. “I—I just got a bit… green. Watching you being shot at.”

“Oh,” Clint said, looking as though the thought would’ve never occurred to him. His hands pressed against Bruce’s through the fabric of his shirt. “Sorry? It’s safe, I promise. Well—not really, but we know what we’re doing.”

“I know,” Bruce hurried to say. Clint’s warm skin under his hands was distracting him. He took a deep breath. “Kate said something about, uh… foreign techniques?”

“Oh, yeah.” Clint shrugged dismissively. “Archery stuff. You know.”

“No, I don’t,” Bruce said. “I’ve only shot a bow once, and it was with you.” The streets outside were white and grey; it had finally started snowing. “What’s it about?”

“It’s not—it’s stupid,” Clint said. He spoke fast and sounded almost apologetic. “Just, I kinda taught myself watching Hollywood movies, and turns out they’re not quite accurate. You’d think I’d have figured that out sooner. Seeing as I’m supposed to be great with a bow.” He shrugged. “Just trying out something different, I guess.”

“Different how?”

Clint gave him a puzzled look. Bruce probably looked a bit confused as well when he replied, “What?”

“Nothing, I just—” He looked unsure. “You’re really interested in this stuff? It’s not… it’s not rocket science.”

“I’ve had my fill of rocket science for the week,” Bruce smiled.

“Oh,” Clint repeated. “Okay. Um… okay, um, you know about the Parthians, right?”

 

*

 

When the taxi dropped them off at the bottom of their building, Clint was still talking animatedly, with a generous amount of hand gestures and multiple occurrences of an imaginary bow.

“And that can just be really useful on the field, you know? I mean—I’m _already_ jumping around and running all over the place when I can’t hold my ground, and shooting on the left side of the bow made it harder but it’s just—it’s how I’d been taught, you know? I can’t say I never made goofy shots before but I never thought of doing them _on purpose._ I should totally go take a trip to Japan. And then there’s this thing—drawing with both hands at the same time, one pulling the bow forward and the other one backwards, giving momentum to your arrow with your entire body—it strengthens the shot like you wouldn’t believe, and it’s a bit harder to aim but I think I got it right, that’s why I couldn’t use the civilian range—I needed strong targets. But I can’t do that using Tony’s hi-tech bows, at least not until I actually tell him about it, all the ones he made are for a more rigid use, so I’m using the recurve a lot lately and I want to try this with a longbow but I’m almost afraid of what’s gonna happen. Longbows are freakishly strong, okay, they _pierced armor_ and that’s totally how the French were defeated at Agincourt in 1415—I think it’s 1415? I looked it up on Wikipedia—and everyone thought it meant horseback combat was over, but when you consider horseback _archery_ and how the Mongolians still—oh, shit, wait—”

He fumbled with his keys, then opened the door and walked in, dropping down his duffle bag.

“Are you hungry? There’s pizza,” he said, turning on the lights as he went. “I guess I kinda ate that all week. I’d say it’s Lucky’s fault but he’s at Kate’s right now, so.”

The apartment was still like it was on the very first day Bruce had knocked on his door—very purple, very messy and very… _warm._ It felt like home. It _was_ home. Bruce looked at Clint, toeing off his shoes as he busied himself above the counter, and felt his voice tangle in his throat again. There was so much he wanted to say, and so few words.

Clint opened the fridge, took out one of the anti-gamma shots stacked at the bottom and injected himself with the ease of habit. “Do you want tea?” he asked.

Bruce’s throat was too tight. “Yes, I—” he fell silent and looked at the books piled up on the coffee table. One of them was about Japanese women’s archery, another one about ancient Egypt, another one about modern Mongolians archers and riders. They were all more than a thousand pages thick, and there were bookmarks sticking out, little ripped pieces of newspaper.

When he looked up, Clint winced at him from behind the counter. “Sorry,” he said. “I, uh, I’m a bit obsessed, I guess.” He grinned bashfully. “I went to the actual library, can you imagine that?”

“Yes,” Bruce said quietly.

Clint looked a bit thrown. The ping of the oven distracted him for a minute; he took out the pizza, and Bruce realized he was famished. He also realized he hadn’t even taken off his shoes or his jacket. He did it a bit clumsily, then pulled two plates out of a cupboard and sat at the counter. The simple domesticity of it all made him dizzy. He couldn’t look away from Clint.

“So,” he said instead of what he really wanted to say. “What were you saying? About archery on horseback?”

Clint’s eyes flicked at him with a bit of surprise; then he sat at the counter. “I, um,” he began again, “it’s not like I want to bring horses on the field or anything, obviously. But when it comes to a bow—”

 

*

 

“—and it’s just so much _fun,”_ Clint finished with a huge grin as they did the dishes. “I hadn’t had that much fun on the range in a long time, and Kate is so on board with it all and God, I just—I just fuckin’ love arrows, you know?”

Bruce couldn’t help laughing at that, and Clint smiled a bit sheepishly. “Alright, I know that sounds—”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Bruce said. He couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m just—I really love you.”

Clint stared. For a second, he didn’t say anything, as if he thought Bruce was going to realize what he’d said and backtrack, or yell that it was a joke, or something.

Bruce felt a surprisingly sharp twinge in his chest, and stepped a little closer. “You didn’t know?” he asked softly.

“I—” Clint caught himself and grinned, too cocky and too flippant. “’Course I know. I mean, who doesn’t—”

But he was pulling away and stumbled a little when he found himself backed against the counter. Bruce curled his fingers in the fabric of Clint’s shirt, then softly pulled him close. “I love you,” he repeated quietly. “You’re so brave and kind and _good,_ and I love you.”

Clint looked so _confused,_ and Bruce’s anger, always at the ready, flared up against all the people who’d made Clint feel like he was somehow worthless, undeserving of their time, making him fight tooth and nail for scraps of attention and still not expecting to get very much.

“I love you too,” Clint said, so low he sounded scared. “I know I’m not really… I wish I could sleep with you, y’know? No,” he said quickly when Bruce opened his mouth, “I know, I know I don’t _have_ to. But it’s frustrating sometimes. I wish it was easy, ‘cause all the rest—” he pressed his forehead against Bruce's and smiled a little, “all the rest is so damn _easy.”_

 _Is he a god in the sack, what?_ Tony asked in Bruce’s mind, and Bruce had to fight another wave of anger. He held Clint tight, burying his face into his shoulder so the familiar smell of bowstring wax and _Clint_ would calm him down. Tony just didn’t know better. Nobody did. For some unfathomable reason, Clint was only Bruce’s to see.

“I really, really want to tie you up right now,” Bruce heard himself say, surprising himself.

Clint let out a laugh into his shoulder, a bit shaky. “I really want you to.”

Bruce took a deep breath, then winced as he let it out, tasting his own tiredness in the back of his throat. “Dammit.” He pulled back just enough to look at Clint. “I’m exhausted.”

“That’s okay,” Clint said instantly, “I didn’t mean to—”

“I could,” said Bruce slowly, “tie you up while I take a nap. Have you there when I wake up.”

Clint stared at him, pupils a little blown. When he spoke, he sounded a bit hoarse and he had to wet his lips. “I’d,” he said, “I’d like that. I think.”

Bruce and Clint were no strangers to bondage at this point, although they’d been taking it glacier-slow—but there had never been any element of submission involved, other than Clint’s unspoken trust to let Bruce incapacitate him, if only for a few moments. Bruce felt a distant thrill and realized that the part of himself that yearned for control yearned for the control of Clint as well. He wanted Clint relaxed in his ropes and sinking slowly into a hazy, warm headspace. Wanted to do this for him.

“Can I try something?” Bruce asked.

Clint nodded wordlessly.

“If you don’t like it,” Bruce pressed, “you’ll tell me.”

“’Course I will,” said Clint quietly.

“Okay.” Bruce swallowed. “See that tile you’re standing on?” They both glanced down for a second. “I want you to stay here, _right_ here, and finish the dishes while I get it all set. If you’re done before I am, don’t move. Just stay here and wait.”

Clint nodded again. His pupils were wide.

“Okay.” Bruce stepped back, a bit regretfully; he glanced at Clint for another second, then turned away.

He retreated into the bedroom, fluffed the pillows, folded down the quilt, then quickly stripped down and went to take a shower. He cleaned himself in five minutes, got out and dried up with the bathroom door open. He could hear the water running in the kitchen while Clint finished the dishes.

Bruce pulled on a soft Hawkeye merch t-shirt and grey sweatpants. He brushed his teeth, filled a bottle of water at the tap, then went back into the bedroom and set it on Clint’s nightstand. He knelt on the carpet and pulled his duffle bag from under the bed; it was filled with soft, thin ropes. The heady smell of the hemp relaxed him more than the shower had. He pulled out a couple of them, then went back into the living room.

He got another little thrill upon seeing Clint waiting in front of the sink, dishes done. Intentionally or not, he’d fallen into parade rest.

“Clint,” said Bruce softly.

Clint glanced at him. He looked a little nervous, but so full of anticipation Bruce loved him a little more.

“You can come here.”

Clint immediately moved from his spot and followed Bruce into the hushed bedroom. The days were drastically shortening, and even though it was not very late in the afternoon, the night was falling already. Bruce didn’t turn on the light.

“Please strip,” he said softly.

Clint tugged his shirt over his head, then took off his jeans. His hands hovered over the waistband of his boxers. “That too?”

“No, that’s okay.” Bruce stepped closer. “Give me your hands.”

Clint obediently presented his wrists. Bruce picked up one of his folded bundles of ropes, silently unrolled it, then took his time to bind Clint’s wrists, solidly but without cutting his blood flow.

“Good?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Clint answered under his breath. His breathing was getting deeper already.

“Get on the bed.”

Clint sat on the bed, then lay down, bracing on his elbows with his wrists bound in front of him. Bruce sat at the end of the bed and tied Clint’s ankles together; he looped the rope around the foot of the bed and secured it. Then he climbed on the mattress, grabbed the end of the rope binding Clint’s wrists, and tied them to the headboard.

Clint often slept on his back with his arms over his head or even twisted under his pillow; this position wasn’t one of stress for him. There was enough length to the rope that he could rest his bound wrists on the mattress above his head—he wouldn’t have to put any weight on them and endanger his blood flow. Bruce had given him enough to be comfortable, but _just_ enough. Clint couldn’t even sit up.

“Water?” offered Bruce.

“Yeah.” Clint swallowed. “Please.”

Bruce leaned over him to grab the water bottle on his nightstand, twisted off the lid and supported Clint’s head to help him drink. They didn’t spill one drop; when Clint slightly drew back to indicate he was done, his breathing had gotten another notch deeper.

“Okay?” Bruce asked.

Clint nodded, resting his head on the pillow. “Very okay.”

“Good.” Bruce took off his glasses, then lay down next to Clint and drew the quilt over himself. The room wasn’t cold; in fact, it was very warm, but he still offered a corner of the covers to Clint, raising his eyebrows questioningly. Clint shook his head.

“No?” Bruce asked. “You like being exposed?”

Clint shivered, then nodded. He shivered again—more violently—when Bruce brushed his stomach, keeping his touch feather-light, going up to his chest and settling there, over his heart to feel it beating. Bruce curled up on his side, then said, hearing how sleepy he sounded already, “Wake me up if there’s the slightest problem. I don’t care if it’s your toe going numb. Just let me know. Okay?”

Clint nodded again.

“Clint.”

“Yes,” Clint exhaled. “Okay.” He wanted to turn to his side, but the ropes stopped him and he shuddered full-body again. Bruce was beginning to love that. He was half-hard in his sweatpants, and shifted a little to accommodate it.

Clint took a long breath, then exhaled, deep and relaxed.

“I’m going to sleep now,” Bruce mumbled, thumb tracing circles into Clint’s chest. “You’re going to wait for me. It’s not like you can go anywhere.”

Another shiver.

Bruce curled up a little, slipping his hands under his pillow. “This whole week,” he said timidly, “I was waiting to come back to you.”

 _This whole year,_ he didn’t say—didn’t think of ice cold basements and Betty’s vacant gaze and Ross telling him they were going to stop feeding him for now. Didn’t think of his own gaunt, desperate reflection looking at back at him until suddenly the mirror cracked and exploded and Clint was behind it.

Clint’s eyes were half-open again. “Me too.” He tried to move without thinking, but his restraints forbade it. He pulled at them more slowly, testing his range of movement. It wasn’t wide. He couldn’t do what he wanted. He could only do what Bruce allowed.

“Touch me again?” he asked, hopeful.

He sighed a little when Bruce cupped his face, and kissed Bruce’s thumb when it pressed over his lips. Bruce shifted closer, close enough to smell him, with sleep soft behind his eyes. “Talk to me,” he mumbled into his pillow. “Tell me about the Parthians.”

Clint smiled. “Okay,” he said, then began quietly. “The thing about horseback archery…”

Bruce was asleep in minutes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting ^.^


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate knows Bruce and Clint are doing _something,_ but hell if she can figure out _what._ At least Clint seems to like it.

 

 

 

 

 

So here was the thing: Kate was _sure_ Clint wasn’t having sex with anyone right now. To be fair, she hadn’t even envisioned the possibility. She generally preferred not to envision anything when it came to Clint’s sex life, period; but it didn’t keep her from knowing, because she knew _him_ way too much by now.

Some people would’ve jumped to conclusions and thought both Hawkeyes had slept together. Which, _no._ Gross. Even though Kate wasn’t above ogling Clint there and then, acting on it would’ve been unthinkable. It wasn’t even about the age difference; regardless of what the Huffington Post said, men and women _could_ be friends and sometimes couldn’t actually be anything else than friends, no matter how flat the abs or how firm the ass. Kate loved Clint, in a way which involved—among other things—begrudging fondness, real admiration, horrified pity and shaking her head a lot. Besides, she knew how Clint reacted to casual sex. In three words: less than casually. She was steering clear of _that_ particular car crash, thank you very much.

But she knew how Clint was when he was getting laid. When he’d been with Jessica, Clint had been skittish, aloof and constantly worried about fucking up—somewhat rightly so (well, Jessica hadn’t been flawless, either, but that was another story.) During that time, Kate—although she despaired over that particular ability of hers—was always able to tell when Clint had just slept with Jess; he was buzzing with a restless, nervous energy afterwards, like an Olympic athlete waiting for the results of his performance in the wings.

Of course, there was Bruce, now. Leave it to Clint Barton to be at his most relaxed and happy in a relationship with the _Hulk._ Despite the apparent absurdity of their connection, or maybe because of it, Kate felt oddly protective of them both. She knew Bruce had expected her to give him the shovel talk with an actual shovel; whenever they met, he still seemed wary of her, as though expecting her to say _Dr. Banner, maybe it’d be better for everyone if you just left._ (Kate knew for a fact that things would actually get exponentially _worse_ if Dr. Banner left. She wasn’t sure he realized how desperate Clint had gotten without him. She wasn’t going to tell him; the poor guy carried enough guilt on his shoulders already.)

The point was: Kate knew Clint-with-Jess and she knew Clint-with-Bruce and she could tell, without hesitation, that these two things were Not The Same. She didn’t know what exactly Bruce’s and Clint’s relationship was like behind closed doors, but she’d been around long enough to be certain that it didn’t involve sex. Not to mention she was pretty sure Clint was strictly straight—hell, Clint himself had confirmed it to her; and her gaydar was pretty on point seeing as absolutely everyone on her team was queer.

Which was why she pushed Clint’s door open without thinking twice about it—only to stumble when it refused to open all the way. When she looked up, she found herself face-to-face with Bruce Banner.

“Hello,” he said softly.

His eyes were a bit wistful as usual, crinkled at the corners. Ever since Clint had brought him back, Bruce had slowly gotten better, filling up just a bit and probably sleeping a lot more. His serenity still felt mostly artificial, controlled, carefully crafted; but it was something already. He didn’t have this look of harrowed exhaustion about him anymore, which was a good thing.

And right now, he was blocking the door with his foot.

“Hi, I just—,” she said, taken off guard. “I’m here to pick up Lucky’s food. It’ll just be a second.”

She expected him to get back, but he only blocked the door even more firmly. “I’m sorry,” he said calmly, “but I don't know where that is, and Clint is a bit busy right now.”

Kate looked at him again. He looked slightly rumpled, as usual, barefoot with his curls ruffled. The first two buttons of his shirt were popped open, and he’d rolled his sleeves up. There was a faint smell about him, something heady like hemp or incense; his breathing was a bit deeper than normal, and his cheeks were faintly colored.

“Do you mean—”

“Kate,” he said. He looked a little amused, now. “We’re _busy.”_

 _“Oh,”_ she said, suddenly feeling like a kid awkwardly ushered out of her parents’ room without quite knowing why. “Oh, shit—I mean fuck— _I mean,_ sorry. I’ll come back later. If that’s okay.”

“That’s okay, thank you,” Bruce said, still with that little smile. “Give us a couple of hours.”

And he closed the door in her face.

Kate stood there staring at the spyhole. A couple of _hours?_

For a foolish second, Kate was tempted to press her ear against the door, but her good upbringing made that regrettable instinct fade away. She did linger a little as she waited for the elevator, though—long enough to hear muffled voices, Bruce asking some sort of question and Clint giving him a droning answer that sounded like a moan.

She hurried into the elevator.

 

*

 

Bruce didn’t linger to watch her leave. He shuffled back to the middle of the room and crouched down.

“Still okay?” he murmured, fingers brushing Clint’s cheek.

Even sitting on his heels, Bruce still wasn’t eye level with him. Clint was hovering only inches from the ground—just high enough not to get any leverage.

“Mmh. Yeah.” Clint let his head fall further back, the top of his skull almost touching the floor. His breathing was shallow and careful; the harness made him arch his back a little. He was facing the ceiling, rocking softly in the ropes. His legs were hiked up so they wouldn’t touch the floor, bound at the calves and ankles, elevated as though in stirrups; his wrists were strapped behind his back.

When Bruce sat closer and pushed his thigh underneath Clint’s head, Clint gratefully let it rest on Bruce’s leg, relieving the strain in his neck. He hummed again, then shivered when Bruce started tracing the ropes constricting his torso and shortening his breath.

“Loving the hook,” Clint said, sounding very far away.

Bruce looked up at the hook they’d screwed into the ceiling two days ago, then back at Clint with a soft smile.

“Yeah, I’m liking it too,” he said.

Clint had been in the harness for almost fifteen minutes now; his whole weight rested on the patterns around his chest and hips. He was only wearing boxers and, where the ropes had slipped a little, Bruce could see deep red marks into his skin. He seemed to enjoy the pressure, the constriction, the way the ropes dug a little further in every time he moved.

He turned his head to the side to push his face against Bruce’s thigh and shifted in the ropes, breath hitching and growing a little more strained. Even the simplest suspensions were always positions of high stress.

“Ready to get down?” Bruce whispered.

“Little longer,” Clint mumbled. He shifted again, then relaxed, head heavy on Bruce’s thigh.

Bruce was tempted to move his leg away and watch Clint arch above the floor, flexing all his muscles in an attempt to find leverage and steady himself. (He’d tried several times already, twisting and panting in the ropes, but they were just short enough that he could only brush the floor without actually touching it.) He didn’t, though; Clint was beginning to get tired.

Bruce leaned down to kiss his forehead, and Clint hummed a little, nuzzling into his shirt. Bruce didn’t straighten up and slipped his hand under Clint’s hovering body to reach his hands. He entwined their fingers together. Clint’s hands were a little cold, but not too much; he squeezed in return, reassuringly. His breathing was getting slower, still too shallow but peaceful.

“Okay,” Bruce whispered, curled around Clint. “Little longer.”

 

*

 

Kate decided to leave them two hours. Two hours was enough, right? There was a coffee shop just across the street. She could just grab a cup of coffee and think about something else. She’d sent a mass text hailing any Young Avengers in the vicinity to come and keep her company. Just another day.

Of course, it was America Chavez who showed up.

“You look like you’re trying to swallow an entire pineapple, Bishop,” she said instead of hello, sitting at her table with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, shut up,” Kate muttered.

America’s little smirk morphed into something even more mocking. “Is this how you kickstart a date? Bit blunt, but let’s see where it takes us.”

Kate rubbed a hand over her eyes. “It’s not a date. It’s a ‘my-friends-are-fucking-and-I’m-waiting-for-them-to-finish’ drink.”

“Ooh, you should patent that one, princess,” America said. “I’m sure it’d trend _fast_. I’ll have a peppermint macchiato, please,” she told the waitress with a smile.

She eyed Kate’s latte like it had just made a very bad pun. “Since you’ve already ordered, aren’t you going to drink it?”

“I’m waiting for it to cool down,” Kate grumbled, then grabbed her cup because she was nothing if not contradictory.

America leaned back into her seat. “So," she said. "I thought Barton’s sex life was the least of your worries.”

“Who said anything about Barton?” Kate protested.

America’s eyes flicked at the window. “His building’s across the street.”

Kate stared at her. “Okay, point.”

“So what,” America asked, “did you walk in on him?”

“Sorta. Not really.” She waved her hand. “I didn’t see anything. Bru—the, um, the other guy closed the door in my face.”

She only realized what she’d said when she saw that America’s eyebrows were making friends with her hairline.

“He’s with a _guy?”_ Her eyebrows slammed back into a suspicious squint. “Is it Banner.”

“What? No," Kate said, then immediately gave up. "Ugh. Fuck. Yes. Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Shame. Teddy would be stoked to know the Hulk’s batting for his team.”

America’s coffee arrived and she sipped it without a flinch. Damn that super strength invulnerability thing. “You suck at keeping secrets, princess.”

“How did you even know?”

“They left the last debriefing together,” America said, shrugging. “It was a shot in the dark, really.” Then she grinned at Kate like she was a particularly tasty piece of brownie with whipped cream on top. “I thought Hawkeye was straight as an arrow. It’s nice to be proved wrong.”

Kate gave her a look. “We’re not some kind of hive mind, you know.”

 _“You’re_ the one who asked me out,” America said innocently, sipping her coffee.

Kate tried to drink hers and burned her tongue.

 

*

 

“Here we go.”

Bruce undid the last knot and put the rope away. Clint was laying on his back with his hands on each side of his head, drawing in long, slow breaths. The marks were gorgeous, each twist of the rope deeply printed into his chest and hips, drawing geometrical patterns of red. The suspensions always marked better, thanks to the weight of Clint’s body adding to the tension Bruce put in his tie.

The marks were lighter on Clint’s arms and legs; Bruce was very wary of nerve damage and preferred not to take that risk. His harnesses never put Clint’s whole weight on the limbs. Even now, he eyed him a little anxiously, but Clint looked fine. Was fine.

After a few seconds of hazy stillness, Clint rolled on his side and pulled himself into Bruce’s lap with a floating smile. Bruce closed his eyes, wrapping an arm around Clint’s waist to help him settle and petting his hair with his other hand.

He took a deep, deep breath, and slowly let it out. He didn’t feel utterly calm very often, but in such moments, the Hulk was silent. Clint’s fingers were curling into his shirt, his ribs expanding beneath Bruce’s arm.

“Alright?” Bruce asked quietly.

Clint nodded, face mashed into Bruce’s side. “You?” he managed to mumble.

“Yes,” Bruce smiled, and rubbed circles into his shoulder.

They stayed like this for a long time, just breathing together. Bruce wasn’t thinking about anything. The slight but constant tension of the rigger had gone lax along with the ropes; he was enjoying the feeling of this moment now, the weight and warmth of Clint, the regularity of his breath, the faint smell of the hemp, the noises of the city outside, the light of the snow coming through the window.

After a little while, Clint’s eyes opened lazily, and he smiled at Bruce. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Bruce whispered, with a small smile of his own. “Welcome back.”

“Went real deep.” Clint closed his eyes again. “Wuz nice.”

He shivered, and Bruce could see goose bumps raise on his skin. “Cold?” he asked.

“A little.” Clint shivered again. “M’coming down.”

“That’s okay.” Bruce let go of him and stretched to the right to grab the blanket he’d brought from the room, then pulled it close and covered Clint with it. Clint burrowed under it like a groundhog, bringing it up to his nose and curling up on the floor, his head resting on Bruce’s thigh.

“I’m gonna make some tea,” Bruce said. “Can I leave you here for a second?”

Clint nodded wordlessly, but pulled the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders when Bruce gently slid out from under him and got up.

The kettle was already full; Bruce just had to flick it on. By the time he’d pulled out two mugs and thrown two sugar cubes and a spoon in each of them, the water was boiling. He filled the mugs, not too much, and brought them back to the middle of the room where Clint was waiting, a ball of covers in the middle of a mess of ropes.

“Hey,” Bruce said, sitting back down with him. Clint slowly sat up, even though he could have stayed down a little longer. He didn’t move for a second, then arched his back and stretched with his arms high above his head. The blanket slipped from his shoulders; he pulled it back around him and blinked slowly at the mug Bruce had set in front of him, before picking it up and warming his hands around it. He was breathing deeply now, with a faint smile on his lips.

“Mmh,” he said, eyes half-closed still, and pressed against Bruce’s side. “Thank you,” he mumbled into his shoulder.

“Thank _you,”_ Bruce murmured. He kissed the top of Clint’s forehead, and Clint turned his head to kiss his neck.

By the time they pulled back, their tea had cooled enough to drink.

 

*

 

Kate shouldn’t have felt so awkward knocking on Clint’s door—but somehow, it was easier to roll her eyes at one of Clint’s one-night-stands than to know he was having sex with someone he loved. It felt too intimate, and she felt irrationally bad for having intruded, even fleetingly, on their moment.

But Clint yelled “Come in” as always, and when she pushed the door, no rumpled physicist blocked it with his foot. In fact, Bruce was at the counter, looking deceptively small and harmless, sipping jessamine infusion and reading something on his tablet.

“Hey, Katie-Kate,” Clint said, grinning lazily at her from the couch. He was wearing his long-sleeved hoodie, even though the apartment was very warm as always. He groaned like he’d just woken up, then swung his legs off the cushions and got up from the couch.

“You here for the dog food, right?” he asked, running a hand through his hair and ruffling it even more.

Kate stared at him.

He wasn’t skittish. Or tense. He wasn’t hovering around Banner and glancing anxiously at him hoping for a smile, or awkwardly looking the other way and fidgeting miserably in his own skin.

In fact, there was something easy and loose about the way he acted with Bruce in the room, like they’d known each other for years. They casually touched each other in passing, Clint nudging Bruce’s legs when he crouched down to open a closet, Bruce brushing Clint’s head when he leaned over him to refill his mug.

“Do you want some?” he asked Kate, with something which looked very much like muted laughter in his eyes.

“No, thanks,” Kate managed, “I’m… really just here for Lucky’s stuff.”

“The furball alright?” Clint asked, coming back up with a huge bag of dog food. “You coulda brought him over.”

“Sure, next time,” Kate said automatically, still staring a little. This was _not_ how post-sex Clint usually looked.

There was a faint smell floating in the air, the same she’d smelled on Bruce earlier. She sniffed, then frowned. “Are you guys smoking _pot?”_

Clint just blinked at her and Banner almost actually laughed.

“No,” he said with a smile, catching himself, “um, I know Tony tells people I smoke weed, but, no. I tend to avoid psychotropic substances in a whole.”

“Don’t do drugs, girly-girl,” Clint said absent-mindedly, walking to the door. “It’ll fuck up your aim.”

He _did_ look a little stoned. But not in the sluggish, muddy way Kate remembered from high school. Just… deeply content. Relaxed. _Comfortable._

Definitely not post-sex Clint.

“C’mon,” he said, opening the door with his foot and walking to the elevator.

She followed him in the hallway and pushed the button.

“Damn glad that thing is repaired,” he said. “Here’s hoping it won’t break down again.” He frowned a little, adjusting the heavy bag in his arms, then looked at her. “Hey, weren’t you here earlier?”

Kate coughed. “Yeah,” she managed. “Yeah, I stopped by.”

She was readying herself for the awkward mother of all awkward apologies, but Clint cut her short by grinning at her. “Yeah, I thought I’d heard you. Sorry for the wait. We were kinda in the middle of something.”

She stared at him. That asshole knew exactly what he was doing.

“That’s okay,” she said heroically. She wasn’t curious about Barton’s gay sex life. She wasn’t going to ask him _anything._

She eyed him surreptitiously, taking in his half-smile, loose shoulders and bare feet. Really, no, not sex. But not pot either, then. Something in between? What the fuck could _that_ even look like?

“What d’you do in the meantime?” Clint asked her.

She coughed again. “Coffee. With, uh, America.”

“Oh yeah. You two dating yet?”

Kate’s embarrassment vanished to leave room for a more familiar feeling of trying very hard not to roll her eyes. “Fuck off, Barton.”

“She’s hitting on you so much!” he said, smiling even wider, the idiot.

The elevator doors opened; Kate grabbed the bag of dog food—Jesus, that thing was _heavy—_ and walked in.

“It’s just flirting, you dummy,” she said. “I’m still straight, y’know.”

“So am I, wardie,” he reminded her, smile growing lopsided. “M’starting to think it doesn’t necessarily mean much.”

He laughed at her expression—an easy laugh she’d almost never heard from him—and added just before the doors closed, “Say hi to Lucky for me!”

 

*

 

Clint closed the door behind him and walked back in, taking off his hoodie. He’d slipped on a gray t-shirt underneath, and Bruce silently appreciated the rope marks on his arms.

“Hungry yet?” he asked mildly.

“Nah, just gonna take a nap now, I think.” Clint bent over the counter to drop a quick peck on his lips. “My head’s still fuzzy.”

“Okay,” Bruce smiled. He watched Clint walk across the room to grab the blanket and take it with him to the couch. He couldn’t help asking, “Did Kate say anything?”

“She’s trying so hard not to pry,” Clint grinned, settling on the cushions. “Probably still half-convinced we’re growing weed in the kitchen closets.”

 _“That’s_ absurd,” Bruce said absent-mindedly, going back to his tablet. “It wouldn’t get nearly enough light.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, probably another couple chapters coming soon, because I'm weak. Thank you for reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all about reciprocity, about compromise, since they both need and want different things; but sometimes they can't even tell who's taking care of whom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read the previous installments and survived: proceed.  
> If you haven't and you have triggers, go read the end notes to be safe. :)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bruce opened the fridge and frowned a little at the anti-gamma pens stacked at the bottom. He closed the door and called, “Clint?”

“Yeah,” came the answer from the bedroom.

“Did you take your—” Bruce tried to keep his voice even, “—your gamma shot today?”

“Oh. Yeah. No, forgot.” Clint’s voice was clipped. “I’ll be right there.”

Bruce looked at the doorframe. Clint hadn’t turned on the lights in the bedroom; the door opened on a rectangle of darkness.

“Clint?”

“Be right there,” Clint repeated.

Bruce just wanted him to come out. Why was he staying in the dark?

“Clint,” he asked again, and then he remembered that he could go into the room, himself. He walked to the threshold and saw Clint sitting on the floor by the bed, fingers slippery with blood.

 _“Clint,”_ Bruce said.

“I’m fine,” Clint said. He got up from the floor, wavering a little; he was wearing his favorite purple shirt which was almost black with blood. “Just a scratch.”

“You’re not fine,” Bruce said, “Clint, that’s a lot of blood—I—would you just come out where I can see you?”

“Yeah, in a minute,” Clint said, moving around the room. The blood was pooling down now, darkening his jeans, trickling down his leg and leaving bloody footprints when he walked. It looked very slippery. Just as Bruce had that thought, Clint slipped and stumbled down. When he leaned on the bed to get up, he stopped himself and looked at his arm. His veins were turning a dark green.

“Oh,” he said, “crap.”

“You haven’t taken your gamma shot,” Bruce said.

“That’s okay,” Clint reassured him. “I’m coming.” His hand splashed in the blood when he tried to push himself up. His veins were turning black, a horrible rotting pattern under his pale skin. He slipped down again.

His flesh was green. Not a bright radiant green, but the foul color of necrosis. The black veining was overtaking his face, his eyes were growing bloodshot.

“Clint, you’re not okay,” Bruce said.

Clint wasn’t moving anymore, eyes open wide and slightly rolled back. The puddle of blood was growing larger and the green gaining ground.

“Clint?” Bruce knelt in the puddle of blood next to him and shook his shoulder. “You need your injection. Clint?”

No answer. When Bruce pulled back, there was a green handprint where his hand had been.

“Come on,” Bruce said, not knowing what to do, “get up. It’s stupid, we’re just a minute late. Clint? Clint?”

Bruce woke up scrambling, suffocating, his chest heaving with gasping sobs, unable to suck in the oxygen he needed.

“Hey,” someone was saying softly, “hey, hey, hey.”

Bruce pushed himself out of the bed, blindly scrambling for the door—the dark bedroom was the exact same he’d seen in his nightmare and he needed to _get out._ He hurried out into the living room, gasping, stumbling against the couch and grabbing the cushions not to fall. He screwed his eyes shut, hot tears running down his face, focused on taking deep breaths. _Dream. Dream. Dream. Just a dream._

He hadn’t had one that bad in a while. The Hulk wasn’t even a rational presence at the moment, just a fumble of screams and sobs and horror and fear trying to get out. Bruce would have once locked it in a box; he took a few uneven breaths and tried to untangle the knot of terror in his mind. _It was just a dream. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real._

It took him a good five minutes before the Hulk listened. He was still a tangle of jittery nerves, but he wasn’t trying to get out anymore. Bruce exhaled shakily and let his consciousness come back to the surface. He had half-collapsed against the couch and painfully drew himself back up.

Living room. Right. The orange light of the street was coming through the window. It was snowing outside. He’d stopped crying, but his eyes were still wet, and without his glasses everything was blurry. He finally looked around and saw Clint a few feet behind him, looking expectantly and a bit nervously at him.

“You back?” he asked, voice low.

Bruce nodded shakily, trying his best to keep breathing steadily. The Hulk settled down a little more upon seeing him. _He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine._

“Hey, c’mere,” Clint murmured.

 _No,_ Bruce thought, _don’t touch me, it’s not safe, it’s—_ but he let Clint pull him into his arms and screwed his eyes shut with a shaky breath. He held onto him and hoped Clint couldn’t feel the wetness seep through his t-shirt; there was nothing he could do to hide his shudders, though.

After a few minutes, he managed to get a stronger hold of himself and drew back, not quite looking up at him.

 “Wanna talk about it?” Clint asked quietly.

“No,” Bruce managed, shaking his head jerkily. “I’m—it’s just—I’ll be fine. Go—go back to sleep, I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“You’re right, we need some tea,” Clint said.

 

*

 

Bruce sat at the kitchen table with his arms wrapped around himself while Clint made tea for him and coffee for himself—it was five am, and neither of them was going back to sleep. Just the thought of going back into the dark bedroom was making Bruce’s skin crawl. He couldn’t even bear to look at it, sitting with his back turned to the open door. But he could feel the draught, the cold air coming from the inside and the metallic stench of blood—

“Can you,” he said very quietly, “can you close the bedroom door, please.”

Clint looked at him, but just said “Sure,” and went to do just that. When he came back, he grabbed his mug of coffee and sat next to him. Bruce stared into his cup without moving. Sometimes he lost his hold on himself and shook all over, only to go back to absolute stillness the next second.

Clint’s toe poked him under the table; apparently, he hadn’t meant to do it and drew back his foot, hesitant. Bruce nudged Clint’s bare foot with his own, just to say it was fine. Clint smiled a little and tangled their ankles together, as if to ground him there. Bruce took a deep, silent breath, and exhaled. Then he unfolded himself to grab his cup and take a tentative sip. The taste was very delicate; the smell of Clint’s coffee was richer, stronger, and the combination of both helped him a little.

He knew he was going to reveal himself, but he couldn’t not ask. The dream had been a dream but the fear was real, like a knife through his lungs, and his shivers weren’t stopping. “Did you take your gamma shot?”

Clint blinked at him. It suddenly occurred to Bruce that Clint hadn’t imagined the dreams were about _him._ He must have been thinking Bruce was dreaming of Ross, those nights when he woke up gasping for air and half-sobbing.

“…Yeah,” he said eventually. “Yeah, Bruce, I took it before I went to sleep.”

“Okay,” Bruce exhaled. “Okay. Okay.”

He took another long sip of tea to avoid looking into Clint’s eyes. There was a silence.

“The guys are doing a rooftop barbecue tomorrow night,” Clint said casually.

Bruce made an effort to smile. “In November?”

“You said the same thing last year,” Clint grinned. “Yeah, in November. They’re crazy and I’m their landlord.”

Bruce drank a little more. He was getting a bit warmer, shivering a little less.

“Grills in charge of the food?” he asked.

“You know it,” Clint said. “S’long as this guy lives, the grilling shall prevail. I think Kate will be coming next time. Bring the Young Avengers along.” He drank his coffee. “She’s totally in lesbians with Chavez.”

“In _lesbians?”_ Bruce repeated.

“Jesus,” Clint said, “you haven’t seen _Scott Pilgrim?_ We gotta put that one on the list.”

He finished his cup, then set it down and looked at it for a little while.

“I’m alright, you know?” he said.

It took Bruce a second to realize what Clint meant. He swallowed, throat clicking. Clint looked up at him.

“I mean actually alright,” he said, unusually serious. “Yeah, I need my daily injection, but it’s not like I’m gonna drop dead without one.”

Bruce said nothing, staring at the table.

“Don’t feel guilty,” Clint said, then winced at himself. “I know I can’t just _tell_ you that, but—Bruce, I’m good. I’m really _good._ The healing thing—well, I don’t know if you realize, but I get pretty banged up on a regular basis.”

Bruce managed a soft snort. “Yes,” he mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face, “I noticed that.”

“Healing faster… well, let’s just say if I had a choice—and this isn’t me bullshitting you to make you feel better, here—I’d keep things exactly how they are now. The pros definitely outweigh the cons on this one.”

Bruce nodded. Still staring at the table, he was surprised to realize he actually… actually believed it a little. Clint didn’t sound like he was just lying to make him better. And he wasn’t dying. He wasn’t _alright,_ but he wasn’t dying.

Clint looked worried; Bruce wordlessly took his hand and squeezed in a silent promise. It wasn’t like he was going to cure Clint by going away.

And _that_ was a weak, convenient excuse to stay, but he didn’t have the energy to be alone anymore. He’d thought going with Ross would harden his shell again, but really it had only made him crave Clint’s infinite kindness more desperately.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

Clint squeezed his hand back. “We’ve got three hours before daylight,” he said. “Anything you’d rather do?”

Despite the coffee, he was shivering a bit with fatigue. Bruce had seen him looking way more exhausted, but he still felt guilty for waking him up.

“A movie?” he said tentatively. “A movie would be good.” That way Clint could lie down.

They ended up watching _Scott Pilgrim_ on the couch, Bruce sitting with his back to the armrest, and Clint stretched out on the cushions with his head in Bruce’s lap. The movie was mostly here for background noise, turned very low; Clint was dozing off anyway, like Bruce had hoped, with a blanket tangled around him. Bruce was resting his tablet on his head, working absently. Sometimes, he looked at up at the screen—flames and colors and an actor that looked a bit like Steve—but mostly he looked through his translucent tablet at Clint while he pretended to work on protein structure.

 

*

 

When the movie ended and the sky began to turn a pale gray out the window, Clint groaned and straightened up with all sorts of popping noises, then smiled goofily at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Bruce said.

A flicker of light caught his eye; the streetlights had just turned off. It felt like a weight off his chest, as though he hadn’t truly thought the night would ever end, until it did.

Clint had an atrocious case of bed hair and the seam of Bruce’s pants was printed across his cheek. He frowned hazily at Bruce’s tablet. “Were you working on my head again?”

“It’s a good head,” Bruce said innocently.

“My brainwaves will mess up your results,” Clint said, but his last word got lost in an irrepressible yawn. He stretched for a few seconds, trembling a little with tension, then relaxed again.

“M’ gonna take a shower.”

“Okay,” Bruce said.

Clint got up and asked nonchalantly, “Wanna help me save water?”

Bruce raised his eyebrows, then put his tablet away. “Anything to preserve our planet.”

Clint stripped on his way to the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes after himself that Bruce carefully side-stepped, and got in to get the temperature right while Bruce undressed. When he stepped inside, Clint pulled him close to him with one arm, bringing him under the hot water; Bruce relaxed when he felt it sluice down his back, and blinked droplets out of his eyes to smile at Clint.

“Morning breath—” Clint managed just before Bruce kissed him, close-mouthed. “Mmh.” He reopened his eyes when Bruce pulled back. “You’re a very brave man.”

“I live for the thrill,” Bruce deadpanned. He kissed him again, cupping his face and running his fingers through his short wet hair. Clint’s lips parted a little when Bruce began to massage his scalp.

“Oh, god,” he groaned. When Bruce moved on to his trapezius, drawn into a tight knot by their uncomfortable night, Clint all but melted against him. “Fuck, _yes.”_

The noises he made grew more and more orgasmic, but Bruce was too tired to get aroused, which suited him just fine at the moment. He didn’t want this to become about himself; it was Clint’s turn.

Bruce had decided a long time ago that keeping people at arm’s length would be safer for everyone. Friendship was dangerous; intimacy was infinitely worse; sex was an outright laughable concept. He just couldn’t have any of that anymore, and he’d thought he’d made his peace with it. After a certain time of starvation, you simply stop being hungry. But with Clint—it had been so simple. So matter of fact. One moment, they were laughing together, and the next Clint was pressing against him, and Bruce hadn’t been able to think of a single reason to stop him. Clint’s hands were always welcome, often even more than his own.

And contrary to all expectations, Clint wasn’t getting tired of it. In fact, he always looked more than happy to help and was always quite smug afterwards, as though getting Bruce off was a particularly delicate archery trick. And Bruce figured it must actually be a little bit like that to him, since Clint’s interest was purely technical.

Of course, Bruce had clumsily tried to return the favor the first few times around, but Clint had always made it clear that sex with guys just wasn’t his thing. He didn’t get excited in Bruce’s ropes or in Bruce’s arms. Whenever he had morning wood, he just groggily went under the shower alone and presumably jerked off.

“It’s like what you do to me. With the ropes,” he said one day upon catching Bruce’s guilty look. “When you tie me up, I’m the one getting all the sensation and attention, but you say it’s good for you too, in a different way. It’s like that when I get you off, only the other way around.”

Like this, Bruce could understand, maybe.

He progressively eased up after that, but he still wondered whether Clint was longing for an actual sex life. But Clint had asked Bruce to trust him on this; and right now, boneless in Bruce’s arms and whimpering a little in bliss as Bruce kept working out the kinks in his neck and back, he did look like there was nothing else he wanted in the world.

 

*

 

Clint’s pager buzzed just as they toweled off.

SHIELD had lost a consequent fraction of their operatives after the Barton Act—which meant said operatives had been working for SHIELD under duress. Bruce wasn’t surprised; after all, that was how it had been for him. But Clint had always been SHIELD by choice. After the meltdown he’d caused, he’d thought SHIELD would want nothing to do with him, but he’d been rehired at once; for all her shortcomings, Hill was by no means stupid.

Clint was still primarily an Avenger and got fewer missions than before, but he still got some. Bottom line, Bruce never liked it much when Clint’s pager buzzed.

“Shit,” Clint mumbled, hair still damp from the shower. “Gotta get dressed. They’ll be on the roof in fifteen.”

He disappeared in the bedroom. Bruce tried not to think of his dream and failed; it must have showed, since Clint’s face fell a little when he came back into the living room in full covert ops battle gear. Uniforms always made Bruce’s skin crawl, but this was Clint, and Bruce had seen him in those clothes often enough for his heartbeat to stay steady.

Well, steady enough.

“I’ve gotta,” Clint said, a little clumsily, and didn’t finish his sentence. “I’m sorry. You take care of yourself. Okay?”

“You too.” Bruce allowed the one-armed hug, trying not to tense at the roughness of Clint’s jacket through the thin fabric of his shirt. Clint must have known anyway, since he quickly pulled back and didn’t try to kiss him.

 

*

 

Clint texted him an hour later, freshly post-briefing, probably.

_shldnt be more then three days_

_ill let you kno_

*

 

On the third day, Bruce was about ready to come out of his skin. Clint had texted him a few times, but the way they’d parted wouldn’t leave Bruce alone—hurried and awkward, still tainted by his nightmare. It weighed on his chest like a bad omen. It was irrational, but the Hulk was stirring in the back of his mind, digging up flashes of Clint agonizing on a cement floor.

When Clint finally, finally texted him that he was coming back ( _“helicarrier in five hours. home in six”)_ Bruce didn’t think. He got out of the apartment, locking the door with shaky hands and rushing out to catch a bus to the new Mansion.

Natasha blinked at Bruce and Bruce blinked at her when she was the one to open the door.

“Doctor,” she said. “Something the matter?”

In other circumstances, Bruce might have been offended—couldn’t he just be here to say hi?—but it was true that he never did show up to the Mansion, except for post-battle debriefs. Besides, his flushed cheeks and short breath made it obvious he’d run.

“I’m,” he said. The words tangled in his mouth, and he painfully managed, “Can I get a ride to the Helicarrier?”

 

*

 

Natasha helped him, which surprised him a bit. She’d never quite shaken off her wariness of him. And going on the Helicarrier for no precise reason went against everything she knew of him. But she didn’t pry, and set him up with a Quinjet and a pilot who—she promised with a sharp smile—would wait for him as long as he needed.

Bruce’s heart was hammering in his ears when they landed on the tarmac. This was a terrible, terrible idea. It wasn’t exactly like collecting your boyfriend at the airport—there were specialists and agents _everywhere,_ and of course, they all recognized him, steering clear of him and hurrying as they walked past him. He had no sensible reason to be there, save for his superstitious fear that something terrible might happen if he just waited at home.

He mumbled that he needed access to the lab—he did actually have a few legit reasons to go there—and stayed holed up in this illusion of a sanctuary for the four hours left until Clint arrived. No one bothered him too much, but he was still jittery. He tried to actually work, but didn’t get much done.

The sun was beginning to set when Bruce finally dared to go out and pace the hallways looking for the debriefing room. He found it after only a few minute, having actually been there himself often enough. Debrief was just over, apparently; tired agents in black gear were exiting the room with duffle bags and deep yawns. Bruce was so convinced Clint somehow wasn’t there that he didn’t react at once when he actually appeared.

Two years ago, he would have just been a SHIELD agent among the others, all generic battle gear and military poise. But in this moment, in this place, in Bruce’s eyes, he stood out so brightly he was all but glowing.

“Clint,” Bruce called, suddenly feeling ridiculous for coming all the way up here and working himself up so much for nothing.

Clint, when he looked up, didn’t seem to think it was ridiculous. He blinked a little as if he couldn’t quite believe it, then his tired, drawn features lit up so much they looked almost sweet.

“Bruce?”

“Hey,” Bruce brilliantly said, clumsily embracing him—tactical jackets be damned. He’d thought maybe Clint wouldn’t want to be seen hugging another man in a Helicarrier hallway, but Clint didn’t pull back for a long minute.

“Something happen?” Clint asked when they parted, a crease of worry in his brow. Bruce wanted to frame his face and smooth it out with both thumbs.

“No,” he said, “I just—I just thought I might…” He waved his hand around, self-explanatory.

“You came to the Helicarrier for—you came for me like—like a welcome back thing?” He looked like he couldn’t process what he was seeing, a baffled grin on his face. “No one… no one ever did that.”

“You okay?” Bruce asked softly.

“I’m fine,” Clint said, “not a scratch,” but he looked a little shaken, actually. He was vibrating with a restless energy while managing to look completely exhausted.

“Are you sure?” Bruce hesitated. “You look…”

He didn’t know how to finish his sentence, and Clint gave him a nervous smile. “Hypervigilance. Adrenaline high. S’okay.” He swallowed. “I’m just gonna—it’s all—just have to stay out of everyone’s way for a bit.”

“Can I help?”

Clint vigorously shook his head. “You don’t have to, it’s—it happens a lot. After covert ops. I can deal.”

Bruce had told him the same thing three nights ago, in different words. _Go back to sleep, I’ll be fine._

“Let me help,” he said, with a bit more authority.

Clint swallowed, unsure. Then again. Then he said, “Um—okay. I… okay.”

“Okay,” Bruce echoed.

He thought for a second, not entirely sure how to do this. Clint waited, blinking at him a little hopefully. Bruce thought of how clipped his voice was, and how halting his sentences, like he had trouble stringing them together with his attention in fifteen different places at once.

“We’re going back to Bed-Stuy,” Bruce said eventually. “Until we get there, you’re not allowed to talk. Okay?”

He wasn’t entirely sure this was the way to go until he saw Clint’s shoulders relax by a fraction for the first time and he nodded with obvious relief.

“Okay,” Bruce said, more softly. “Do you have all your stuff?”

Clint nodded again.

“Come on, then.”

 

*

 

As they made their way back to Bed-Stuy, by Quinjet and then by foot, Bruce took the measure of just how on edge Clint was. He was walking next to Bruce, obviously still hyperaware of his surroundings, continuously checking the rooftops and possible sniper vantage points, drawing himself tense every time someone crossed them on the sidewalk. Bruce wondered if this was how he was after _every_ mission and he just hadn’t seen it till then.

Aimee, Clint’s pink-haired neighbor, was opening her mailbox when Clint and Bruce came in the lobby. “Hey, David,” she said. “Hey, Clint. Do anything fun over weekend?”

“You won’t hear it from him,” Bruce said quietly. “He’s lost his voice. We had to go on a pharmacy run.”

He could almost physically feel the relief bleeding from Clint at not having to do small talk.

“Aw, man, that sucks,” she scowled. “You really can’t speak at all?”

Clint smiled a little and shook his head. After Aimee had wished him a prompt recovery, Bruce and Clint got into the elevator and Clint relaxed by another fraction—being in an enclosed space helped, apparently. Bruce knew by now that Clint liked being restrained and held down, told to stay put, stay still, stay quiet.

Bruce was beginning to understand why. You couldn’t do a wrong move if you couldn’t move, and couldn’t say the wrong thing if you couldn’t speak.

When they padded out of the elevator and into their apartment, Bruce took the time to lock the door; last time, he almost hadn’t heard Kate come up, and he’d gotten to the door just in time to block it. Hawkeyes had an unfortunate tendency not to knock.

Clint was standing in the middle of the room, right under the rigging hook, almost vibrating with tension. Bruce grabbed a pillow and set it on the floor. “Come sit down here,” he said softly.

Clint blinked nervously at him, then put his duffle bag on the couch and sat down. Bruce crouched with him and framed his face so he’d look at him.

“Anything you need to say?”

Clint hesitated, then shook his head.

“Okay,” Bruce said. “You can keep quiet.”

Clint smiled and leaned in to press a kiss to his lips. Bruce smiled back, then got up. “Don’t move.”

He went around the apartment and closed all the doors and all the blinds. The night was only beginning to fall; he turned on the lowest, warmest lights in the room, the lamp he’d knocked over once and the other one by the couch. Clint was waiting, sitting very straight on his pillow.

Bruce knelt by him and grabbed the front of his jacket to pull down the zipper. When Clint made a move to help him, Bruce pushed his hands away. Clint got the message and stilled, letting Bruce push the jacket off his shoulders. When it was gone, Bruce unclasped Clint’s bulletproof vest and pulled it off him as well. He was wearing a black t-shirt underneath; Bruce made him lean forward and bow his head so he could tug it off.

Clint’s bare chest looked very pale, although Bruce knew, rationally, that he was pretty tan. It was the contrasting colors throwing him off—there were blotches of purple and black over his right hip and right shoulder. A nasty fall, or a nasty blow. Bruce ran light fingers over them, making him shiver.

He took off the combat boots next, patiently unlacing them and putting them away, slipping off the socks then pushing Clint on his back, making him brace on his elbows and lift his hips while his pants were unbuckled and pulled off. This time, Bruce took his underwear, too; Clint shivered a little, but his next breath was deeper. He looked soft and vulnerable in the dim light.

Bruce realized his own nervous energy was building up in an unwelcome way, and tried to tamp it down. He shouldn't have gotten Clint naked. But when Clint saw it as well, his eyes widened a little with something that looked very much like eagerness.

Bruce hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to do this, and Clint lying there naked and exposed with a pleading look in his eyes wasn’t helping him think. Eventually, he put his hand on Clint’s ankle, just to have a point of contact, and said, “You want to ask something, go ahead.”

“Can I,” Clint said, glancing down then back up, “can we—please.”

Bruce knew Clint was to be trusted about what he wanted or didn’t want—he _knew,_ but Clint still looked so exhausted and like he was about to come out of his own skin.

“You want to get me off?” Bruce asked cautiously.

Clint looked like he was struggling with himself for a few seconds; then he managed, pleadingly, “I want you to want it.”

 _I need you to want me,_ Bruce heard. He remembered Clint’s look of content pride every time he made Bruce come apart, like he’d done something good, without any internal conflicts about collateral damage and bittersweet victory and moral accountability, just—something simply, wholly good.

“I want it,” Bruce said quietly.

He got up and sat on the couch, unzipping himself while Clint shuffled hurriedly between his legs. “Just—” His breath got punched out of him when Clint swallowed him in one go, almost frantic, as if he wanted to wring his orgasm out of him. “Clint—Clint—wait. _Wait.”_

Clint drew back, looking nervous and guilty, and Bruce framed his face again. “It’s okay. Just… slow down.”

He tried to ignore his pressing arousal. For him, it might be about sex—and God, it was very much about sex right now—but for Clint…This wasn’t even Clint being his usual cocky self, getting Bruce off with teasing praise and clever fingers. This was Clint asking Bruce to give him what he’d given him last time, when he’d made him stand at the sink while he prepared the ropes for the night. Bruce didn’t know exactly what Clint had done during his three days abroad, but he could see he terribly needed to stop thinking and leave someone else in charge for a little while.

Except Clint was acting desperate like his value as a human being was actually in the balance here. Bruce took the time to breathe, then slipped a hand in Clint’s hair and tightened his hold until Clint’s eyes fluttered shut.

“I need you to do exactly as I say. Okay?”

Clint gave a frantic little nod—aborted when Bruce’s hold on his hair kept him from moving. He shuddered a little and drew himself faintly straighter, throat working around nothing.

“Keep your eyes shut.” Bruce shifted a little on the cushions. “Hands behind your back.”

Clint obeyed. Bruce tugged on his hair a little more to make him tilt his head back.

“Open your mouth.”

Clint’s lips parted. Bruce slipped two fingers inside and pulled down, making him open wider. “Don’t use your tongue,” he warned, “don't suck,” just before he pushed in.

The order seemed to surprise Clint, if the faint crease between his eyebrows was anything to go by; but he obeyed again, didn’t move a muscle, jaw slack as Bruce sank in, throat working again to accommodate him.

“There,” Bruce said softly. “Like this. Can you breathe okay?”

Clint gave another faint nod, keeping his mouth dutifully open.

“If you start having cramps,” Bruce said, rubbing his jaw, “if something feels wrong, just unclasp your hands.”

Clint breathed through his nose, throat working and shifting, apparently waiting for Bruce to give him the go ahead. He startled a little when Bruce started rocking his hips minutely, unhurried and very slow.

“Just like this,” Bruce murmured. “It’s perfect just like this.”

When Clint understood that Bruce wasn’t going to ask him to be active, the line of his shoulders relaxed so abruptly it sent a shiver through his whole body. He kept trembling for a few seconds, but the worst of his tension was gone and he gladly leaned into Bruce’s touch when he felt his hand cup his cheek again.

“You’re incredible,” Bruce said very quietly. “You don’t even like this. It’s all for me. You come back from the field, and all you want is to make me feel good, with nothing for yourself. Do you know how amazing you are?”

He kept rubbing Clint’s neck, slowly scratching his scalp. Clint was relaxing more and more, breathing through his nose and adjusting around him, and Bruce wondered if being physically kept from speaking had anything to do with it. Maybe Bruce could ask him if he wanted a gag next time they did ropes.

He also wondered if Clint appreciated this in some way, the slow rub of silky skin against his lips, the feeling of a full mouth; or if all that mattered was really just to know that he was giving Bruce something he wanted.

“All it takes is for me to see you,” Bruce kept going, soft and tranquil despite the heat welling in the pit of his stomach, “for you to _be_ there, and I _want._ ” He breathed in. “I’m going to come just from you, just like this.”

It wouldn’t be a feat; Bruce was keeping himself on the edge trying to make it as comfortable as possible for Clint, and his pleasure was building up and up as a result, tight and coiled like a spring. He knew his body’s reactions all too well—had spent decades trying to make it _mind—_ and it was easy, to balance this, so much easier than the storm of rage and violence he was usually trying to contain instead.

“I love you so much,” Bruce said, and Clint shook all over. “And even if we never did this again, you wouldn’t have to—” Clint’s eyes half-opened; Bruce met his gaze and smiled a little, “—but you know that, I know you know that.”

Clint’s eyes closed again and crinkled at the corners, his smile lost in the stretch of his lips. He was relaxing more and more. Bruce gasped a little when he felt his hips try to stutter. “You’re so good,” he said, and he wished he could say it better but there were no truer words at the moment, nothing Clint needed to hear more, “You’re doing everything just like I asked you. You’re doing everything right. You're perfect.”

Clint shuddered again, and Bruce felt his breath hitch. “I’m,” he said, “now, if—if you’re ready.”

Clint surged in answer, swallowed him, and Bruce threw his head back against the cushions and let the tight hot knot inside him come undone. He felt Clint’s throat work around him and let himself go, warm and loose with pleasure.

When stars stopped clouding his vision, he released Clint’s hair and clumsily tucked himself back in, fumbling a little with slightly shaking hands. Clint was sitting back on his heels, face pressed into Bruce’s thigh and breathing deeply. Every muscle in his body was loose.

“Come here,” Bruce murmured, “come up here with me, come on.”

He helped Clint get up just long enough to curl up against Bruce’s side, with an arm draped over his chest and his face tucked into the crook of his neck. The blanket they used after the ropes was draped over the couch; Bruce grabbed it and covered Clint with it, tucking him in and wrapping his arms around him.

“Thank you,” Bruce murmured.

It felt like the thing to say. They thanked each other after the ropes, so Bruce could thank Clint when he did this, too.

Clint sagged into Bruce’s side with a deep sigh, and mumbled, “Thank _you.”_

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Bruce murmured.

He rubbed his back for a few minutes. Then he said, without thinking, “Do you, um—” he stopped himself; but Clint looked up at him hazily, and Bruce felt compelled to go on. “Do you—would you—like it better with a condom? So you don’t have to—um.”

Clint actually took the time to think about it, eyes still clouded over. Then he shook his head, slurring, “M’ not a fan of how latex text—latec test— _latex tastes,”_ he managed, He nuzzled into Bruce’s shirt. “And you taste okay.”

Bruce huffed a laugh. “Thanks.”

“S’gotta be all that healthy food,” Clint mumbled hazily. “Hey, could you try eating pineapple?”

Bruce laughed again and said fondly, “Sure.”

“Do you _like_ pineapple?”

“Yeah. Don’t you?”

“Not on pizza,” Clint muttered.

Bruce couldn’t stop smiling.

“I feel so high.” Clint shifted against Bruce, getting comfortable, and sighed blissfully. “Can we,” he asked, “stay here? Just. Take a nap.”

“Of course,” Bruce said, and Clint pushed himself off him, saying “wait, wait. C’mere, like this,” and they fumbled around for a minute, Bruce taking off his pants not to hurt him with the zippers while Clint untangled the blanket from his body to wrap it around them both, until they were both lying down with Bruce stretched out on top of Clint, his head resting against Clint’s chest.

“Wait,” Bruce said, twisting his neck to look up, “—am I crushing you?”

“Yeah,” Clint grinned, “s’awesome.” He wiggled a little to settle under him and wrapped his arms around him. “Hmm.”

It was probably more uncomfortable than they realized, but they were too mellow to care at the moment. Bruce closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh.

“We always end up on the couch,” Clint said with a huff of laughter.

Bruce had to admit the perspective of getting up to get to the bed, larger but colder, with its crisp sheets and flat mattress, was incredibly unappealing. They were better like this, tucked against each other between the warm cushions. His orgasm still resonated inside him, warm echoes that made the last of his tenseness ebb away.

Clint’s arms tightened around Bruce. “I like—that,” he muttered into his hair, encompassing in his _that_ Bruce’s quiet commands and his own compliance and the peace resting upon them both in the aftermath. “I really like that.”

“I’m glad,” Bruce mumbled, and found his hand to lace their fingers together.

“S’ the first time we did both,” Clint mumbled, “at the same time.”

It was true. They never mixed ropes and sex, and Clint submitting to Bruce was something almost entirely new. Bruce heard a hint of nervousness in Clint’s tone and squeezed his hand.

“It was what felt right this time,” he said. “Maybe it’ll happen again and maybe not. I’m good either way.”

Clint smiled into his hair, relaxing again. “Yeah,” he said, “Me too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Bruce has a rather graphic nightmare about Clint being shot and irradiated, and fights off a panic attack when he wakes up.
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, comments make me the happiest noodle in the pasta box. :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas was coming soon, and they were both trying to pretend it wasn't a big deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks go to my amazi-beta laurie_ky and her ninja skills.
> 
> Have a Christmas story in April, because fuck the police. Also, it felt like an appropriate coda, considering how _In the Details_ ended. I might add some more to this 'verse one day, especially with the Age of Ultron upon us. In the meantime, enjoy this ridiculous amount of fluff, and leave a comment if you're so inclined ^^

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas was coming soon, and they were both trying to pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

It shouldn’t have been. A year ago, Clint had made it clear that the holidays had never mattered much to him. Bruce could still hear him grumbling, _I don’t even do Christmas._ But he’d said it while adjusting a Santa hat his aging neighbor had given him, and he’d kept wearing the thing almost every day after that. Clint might not like Christmas, but he liked people, and this never ending faith in a humanity which had hurt him so much was one of the reasons Bruce loved him.

When Bruce was little—well. There had been no holiday magic then. His father just wasn’t the celebrating type. After he’d gotten rescued from the house in which his mother lived no longer, there had been a few years of foster care, and presents his aunt had made sure he knew were perfunctory. The only splashes of color during his gray high school years had been the mottled bruises no one else seemed to see. It went on until he found himself sitting in the basement near a small artisanal bomb, curled up on himself and waiting. He’d hoped maybe someone would finally see him, hear him, even help him, but in the end it was the army whose attention he drew. They had funds and labs and a certain amount of respect for his work. He had nowhere else to go.

He didn’t quite belong there, and he remained as lonely as ever in his small apartment. The first Christmas sharpened the edges of his shame at being so utterly unable to fit in. Then Betty happened; and for a bright, baffling few months, he suddenly had it all. They drank bad champagne for Thanksgiving and made love after midnight, in his cramped little bed, and he held onto her shoulders and breathed, and arched, and cried out. It was six days before the gamma experiments.

On the run, there weren’t many opportunities to celebrate. Most of the countries he found himself in didn’t do Christmas anyway. It hardly mattered. He didn’t deserve anything human anymore. Maybe never had, because why else would it feel familiar? The anger had always been there, the helplessness as well. The Hulk just made it all easier to see.

The Avengers had been somewhat unexpected; but after the last bite of shwarma, Bruce had quickly drawn away. They were all sorts of broken and five different shades of deadly, but they were not monsters. He wanted to leave again, go back to Kolkata and the tiny corner he’d carved for himself there; but a SHIELD official had shown up at the train station, bought him a cup a coffee which he couldn’t drink, and idly talked about how _hard_ they’d worked to bring him back on American soil, and what a _pity_ it’d be if he ruined all their efforts so soon. Getting the WSC to freeze the mass manslaughter charges had been a legal _nightmare._ Was he _aware_ his immunity would end as soon as he left the territory?

Bruce was so tired.

A year ago, he might’ve left anyway, let them charge him with the murders he’d committed. But there was no real point in doing so if he kept running from the law; and he couldn’t _not_ run, lest Ross and his vivisection tables caught up with him. So he might as well stay in New York and accept SHIELD’s poisoned deal. Immunity, as long as he stuck around and did as he was told. It was a broader cage, at that, with a long enough leash. Probably more than he actually deserved. Tony was even offering him a place to stay; but Bruce’s tentative first week at the Tower was cut short when he met Pepper Potts and shook her hand and saw in her eyes that she didn’t _want him here._ He understood the feeling only too well.

The first few days on the streets, he lied to himself thinking he’d find temporary arrangements soon; but he quickly let go of even that delusion. He had no energy left to do anything but survive. It was all he could do to keep working blearily, with this tiny figment of his past life to keep him sane. But a few weeks later, of course, someone had stolen his laptop and he had found himself with absolutely nothing left to go on.

And then—there had been Clint.

Bruce hadn't expected Clint to actually _agree_ to help him, nor had he expected an offer for a place after Bruce had gotten him _beaten up,_ for Christ’s sake. In fact, Clint had continued to baffle him during the months that followed. The most puzzling thing about him was that he seemed to believe Bruce was doing _him_ a favor by sticking around. Clint was under a lot of delusions, Bruce realized, and actually probably insane since he managed to love Bruce as if there was something to love. But no matter how long Bruce waited for him to come back to his senses, Clint never did and kept on making their lives so easy—so _easy_ it was like breathing again for the first time in years. Bruce, to his own wary surprise, had realized maybe—maybe he’d actually _celebrate_ this year. For the first time… ever, really. Clint would drag him to some crazy December rooftop barbecue. There would be food. People. Bruce even secretly hired someone to fix the elevator in Clint’s building. It was meant to be a surprise. He would get to say, _I got you a present._ He’d been thinking at night about the face Clint would make, playing the scene over and over in his head, smiling into his pillow.

He really should have known better.

Bruce wrote Clint a letter just before he left for good, tried to explain all the things he hadn’t managed to say. Peter Parker was bouncing on his feet waiting for him to finish, grabbed it as soon as it was done and swung away into the night; and Bruce realized he’d been so focused on his apologies and thanks that he’d forgotten to write the most important part. It was too late now. It had always been too late.

He was so sure he could never come back this time. But Clint went after him, found him, dragged him back, lost his humanity and almost lost his life in the process, but brought him _back_ anyway. Bruce had hurt him enough. He should’ve left again. But Clint wanted him here, _wanted_ him here with him, and Bruce was so weak, so weak, so weak.

And now Christmas was around the corner again.

 

*

 

Bruce lay awake for three hours before he turned to the side and grabbed Clint’s shoulder.

“Clint,” he said softly, shaking him a little. “Clint.”

Clint snuffled, then cracked an eye open and looked at Bruce. “Hey.” He rolled to his side with a deep exhale, rubbing at his eyes with a wince. “’Time izzit?”

“Four,” Bruce said.

“Nightmare?” Clint mumbled, still half-asleep, and Bruce loved him so much it was all he could do to focus on his breathing.

“No,” he said softly, “not this time.” He hesitated, then said, “Come here.”

“Mm.” Clint let himself be pulled into Bruce’s arms and nuzzled into his neck. He breathed there for a moment, then talked again, his words half-muffled into Bruce’s shirt. “Wha’s wrong?”

“Do you want to get a tree?” Bruce asked.

Clint’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing evenly. Eventually, he frowned a little and mumbled, “A tree?”

“A Christmas tree. I know it’s not really your thing.”

Clint actually cracked his eyes open again. They were a comforting grey in the pale moonlight, not a fleck of green in sight. Then they fell back shut.

“Christmas, huh,” he said. “Kate’s also tryin’a rope me into it. Like one big happy family kinda thing.”

The word _family_ tore into Bruce’s heart so sharply it made his breath hitch. He closed his eyes again and tried to breathe deeply. Clint was dozing off, and Bruce was so persuaded he’d fallen asleep again he almost didn’t hear him say, “Sure. Why not.”

Bruce held him tighter, felt his body press against his, heavy and dense and warm and real. “You don’t have to.”

“Christmas with you,” Clint mumbled, “that actually sounds good.” He worked an arm around Bruce and tugged him closer.

 

*

 

They woke up still tangled into each other, didn’t feel like untangling and went under the shower together. They could have stood there for hours if the water hadn't suddenly turned cold, making them yelp and hurry out, half-laughing and fully awake now.

“Where do you buy a tree?” Clint asked over breakfast, hair still wet, and Bruce had to confess he had no idea.

Clint called Kate who presumably sighed and called him an idiot and said she would be there in fifteen minutes. Bruce was still smiling as he drank his tea—and for a sharp cold second he was terrified, because this was last year all over again.

But he breathed through his nose and let the tea warm him from the inside, and watched Clint inject himself with his gamma shot of the day, and tried to tell himself it’d be alright.

 

*

 

The tree was dangerously leaning to the left and already shedding needles everywhere.

“We should’ve bought a fake one,” Clint complained, then promptly tripped over his dog and caught himself on the tree which fell into his arms like a swooning damsel. “Lucky, goddammit!”

“You’re the one who wanted me to bring him along,” Kate grinned. Lucky was so overjoyed to be back that he was trotting around everyone’s legs, trying to jump up and barking a little.

“Yes, this is obviously my fault,” Clint said through a mouthful of pine needles, straining to keep the tree up. “Little help?”

“Doctor, take care of the furry menace for a second.” Kate guided Bruce’s hand around Lucky’s collar and went to help Clint.

“Here,” Bruce said, scratching the dog behind his ears. “Good boy.”

Lucky looked perfectly happy to be petted, panting ecstatically, tail swatting at the ankles of whoever came near him; and he left the Hawkeyes alone long enough for them to wrestle the tree into what passed for an upright position.

“He still loves you,” Clint observed, spitting pine needles. He crouched next to Bruce and grabbed Lucky’s head. “Don’t you, boy? C’mere.”

“Do you have decorations?” Kate inquired.

“Aw,” Clint said. “No, I don’t.” Lucky failed to share his distress since Clint was still roughly scratching his neck; he started licking his face with broad enthusiastic strokes. “Do we have to go out again?”

“We could ask the neighbors if they have some to spare?” Bruce said tentatively.

In hindsight, this was a terrible, terrible idea; because although Clint’s neighbors looked more than happy to provide, of course they only gave them decorations no one used or wanted. Looking at them, it was pretty easy to understand why. Their tree ended up horribly garish, with an inexplicable Iron Man plastic helmet at the top in lieu of a star.

“That is the ugliest effing tree I’ve ever seen,” Kate commented. “C’mon, Lucky, let’s go shopping.”

Clint was still staring at the tree five minutes after she’d left, nursing a cup of coffee and blinking a little as though wondering how this Christmas lump had gotten here.

Bruce fidgeted on the side, poking at the inside of his own palm. He wasn’t sure what to say. He had kind of ambushed Clint into the whole thing, and now there was a pine-scented mess leaking garlands in the living room.

“It’s not that ugly,” Bruce timidly said.

Clint blinked, then looked at him.

“Bruce,” he said seriously. “It’s fucking hideous.” Then he grinned broadly. “I like it.”

 

*

 

For all its brightness, the Christmas tree only darkened Bruce’s deepest fears. Everything was going too well. This never happened. Not to him.

The days ticked away like a countdown. It was becoming something of a physical effort to breathe. Clint looked preoccupied as well, though Bruce couldn’t fathom why. He was getting quieter, slightly distant at times.

Four days before Christmas, he spoke up, without looking up from the bow in his hands.

“They’re doing a thing at the Mansion on December 24th. Tony, Nat, Steve and whoever else will be there, I guess.”

Bruce rested his tablet against the edge of the counter, looking up.

“Okay,” he said carefully.

Clint focused on re-stringing his recurve for a minute. “Do you want to go?”

Bruce didn’t know what to answer, and Clint was already going on anyway. “I kinda feel like going,” he said, “but I know you were uncomfortable last time in the Tower. With everyone around. I won’t make you go.”

“You can go without me, you know,” Bruce said without thinking.

Clint tensed. “No, I—” he said awkwardly. “’I’d rather not...” His sentence trailed off and he struggled with himself for a minute. “I’d rather we stick together? If you don’t—mind.”

For some reason, it only hit Bruce then, how scared Clint was, too. Bruce felt a hot rush of guilt burn at his skin. He was so used to feel sorry for himself that he’d managed to forget _he_ wasn’t the one who had been abandoned last Christmas.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted.

Clint looked up. The night was insensibly falling outside the window, and the only light in the room came from the blinking Christmas lights. “Sorry for what?”

Bruce opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a second. He looked down for courage, then looked back up—just in time to see the couch cushion before it beaned him in the head.

Bruce was so surprised he toppled backward on his stool; he flailed gracelessly to steady himself and half-fell half-climbed down onto the kitchen floor, ending up on his back with the stool across his lap and the heavy cushion knocking his glasses aside.

“Shit,” was saying Clint, “shit shit shit—” He grabbed the stool and set it upright, then crouched next to Bruce.

Bruce could only blink at the ceiling in sheer bafflement; the Hulk himself hadn’t processed it all yet. “What,” he managed.

Clint looked like a deer in the headlights. “I,” he said, fussing over him, “I—panicked? You looked like you were going to cry. I didn’t think you’d _fall backwards.”_ He picked up the heavy pillow and threw it aside, then crawled closer. “Are you okay?”

“I’m—fine,” Bruce said automatically. “I— _Jesus watch out!”_

Clint had thrown the pillow without looking, and unfortunately, he’d thrown it right into the tree which promptly fell down as trees do—only a lot more fabulously, in a glittering mass of pine-scented doom. Clint threw himself over Bruce just before the tree crashed on top of them both, sending Christmas balls to roll away everywhere.

The silence which followed was impressive.

“Ow,” Clint moaned.

He propped himself up on his elbows, shaking off a few more balls from the tree.

“Are…are you okay?” Bruce asked, unsure whether he should panic.

“Yeah,” Clint groaned. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Bruce said.

They looked into each other’s eyes—and then they both burst out laughing.

“Stop,” Clint complained, “don’t make me laugh, it’s shaking the tree,” and Bruce laughed even harder. The tree was twitching indeed and it was raining pine needles around them. Bruce laughed, and laughed, and then managed to stop long enough to pull Clint down and kiss him.

His hands wormed their way through the branches digging into Clint’s back so he could wrap his arms around him.

“I’m sorry I’m so nervous,” he said, pressing his face into his shoulder. “It’s just… after what happened last year, I—”

“Feel like something’s going to come crashing down?” Clint offered, and they cracked up again.

The laughter was quicker to ebb this time around, though. Clint looked down at Bruce. The multicolored garland was still blinking on and off, painting Clint’s face in pink and yellow and purple and blue.

“I’m a bit jittery too,” Clint confessed.

Bruce cupped Clint’s face, then moved his hand behind his neck, pressing their foreheads together. Clint exhaled. They couldn’t promise to each other that everything would be fine. Everything was supposed to be fine last time around, as well.

“All I want for Christmas is you,” Bruce murmured, feeling instantly ridiculous.         

But Clint didn’t laugh, just smiled.

“How sweet the sound,” he said quietly.

 

*

 

Their tree looked even worse for wear when they put it back upright, and they actually had to prop it up against the wall. A few Christmas balls had been smashed to pieces, but the lights were still valiantly blinking.

“It’s growing on me,” Clint said, hands on his hips.

“I can see that. You’re covered in pine needles.”

They stared at their ugly tree for another minute. Bruce brushed needles out of his own hair then said, “Can I come along to the range?”

Clint looked relieved when he nodded. “Yeah. But—wait, if you’re gonna go out, I’m gonna give you your present early.”

“My what?” Bruce asked, but Clint was already digging in a drawer, and got out—a jacket. A solid, brown leather jacket with a hood, lined with soft white fluff. It looked even warmer than the one he’d bought for him a year ago. “Here.”

Bruce stared at him.

“What?” Clint said defensively. “It’s your Christmas present. I know it’s not very original, but your jacket is too fucking thin and you look so cold every time we—oh fuck, I should have wrapped it, right?”

Bruce wanted to tell him what this meant to him—wanted to tell him how hard he’d worked to keep his old jacket in one piece on the road, and how sharp the pain had been when Ross had taken it from him, the last piece of Clint he was carrying with him. And now—now—

“Let’s go to the Mansion for Christmas,” Bruce heard himself say.

Clint looked at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” It was easier than expected to smile. Clint made everything easier. “It’ll be fun.”

 

*

 

They heard Tony coming long before he opened the door, in a string of muffled ramblings that got louder and louder until he turned the doorknob.

“And if you think I can’t tell that you already— _Brucie-bear!”_ he grinned. “It’s a Christmas miracle. Nice jacket, looks cozy, love the look on you—and my favorite assassin showed up, too! Well, second favorite—you know how Romanov gets.”

“You’ve _got_ to stop telling people I’m an assassin, Tony,” Clint said. “Kingpin already tried to hire me twice.”

“Thank God you don’t need the money. Come in, losers, it’s freezing out there.”

Bruce stomped inside to shake the snow off his boots. The jacket slid off him like silk and he almost didn’t want it off.

“Oh,” Tony went on, “by the way, are we still pretending you guys aren’t together? Because, well, I know, Romanov always knows everything and I’m pretty sure Steve guessed.”

“It’s not a big secret,” Clint said. “Just not Fury’s business.”

“So it _is_ a big secret,” Tony grinned, leading them inside. “Don’t worry, Fury’s definitely not invited.”

James Rhodes was already there, quietly chatting with Natasha near the fireplace. They both smiled at Clint when he came in, and Bruce suddenly felt like he didn’t belong here. The feeling lasted for an acute second, then Tony slung his arm around his shoulders. “This way, Banner.”

He led him to the bar and grabbed a thermos, pouring him a cup. It looked very hot and smelled delicious, spicy and rich all in one. “Here,” he said. “Eggnog.”

“Tony, I don’t—”

“—drink alcohol, I know. There isn’t any in it.” Tony dug behind the bar. “Also—ah! There.” He came back up with a bottle. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find some non-alcoholic champagne which actually _tastes_ like champagne.”

Bruce must have looked at him really weirdly, because Tony looked both embarrassed and annoyed. “What? I can be considerate. I really can. We’re going to toast a lot later and I didn’t want you to do it with a glass of water, Banner, that’s just sad.”

Bruce finally smiled. “Thank you.”

Tony scowled. “Don’t get your hopes up, I’ll be back to my regularly scheduled assholery as soon as Christmas is over.” The doorbell rang. “That’s gotta be Cap, he’s the only one left.”

“Is no one else coming?”

“Avengers only. Plus significant others, but we don’t have a lot of those. Especially since you and Barton are inbreeding.”

Bruce couldn’t help smiling again. Pepper Potts was coming in as the doorbell rang again; Bruce put his eggnog down. “I’ll get the door.”

“You sure?” Tony said, raising an eyebrow.

“Sure,” Bruce said.

It was indeed Steve, who looked a little surprised but pleased to see Bruce. “Doctor, hello. I’m real glad you could make it. This is, um…”

Bruce realized then that Steve _had_ brought a friend, contrary to Tony’s expectations. He was standing at Steve’s left, quiet and still, staring at the ground.

“…James,” Steve finished, sounding oddly unsure.

“Hello,” Bruce said. “I’m Bruce.”

He expected James to recoil upon hearing his name, but he just looked up warily, already wedging his hand out of his pocket—then stopped with a strangely relieved look when he realized Bruce wasn’t reaching out to shake hands. Bruce had the distinct feeling this hadn’t anything to do with him.

He smiled at him as they came in, and while James didn’t smile back, Steve looked infinitely grateful to Bruce for this small kindness.

 

*

 

Bruce sat between Clint and James for the meal, which was as formidable as you might expect with a supersoldier at the table and a chef on Tony Stark’s payroll. Bruce couldn’t help but notice that while James ate everything he was given, he never actually helped himself to anything. Steve was always the one putting things on his plate and asking if he wanted more. If anyone else noticed, they didn’t say—and Bruce had the odd feeling they all already knew James somehow. He had missed a lot while on the run, as always.

Steve excused himself just as the cake arrived and headed towards the bathroom. A first round of slices were served, too thin—just for taste—and James ate his in seconds; he stared longingly at the cake, but said nothing.

“Um,” Bruce said awkwardly, making him look up. “Want another?”

James did smile at him this time, small and rusty. “Yeah. Please. Thanks.”

Bruce cut off an enormous slice and was pleased when James’ smiled quirked wider. “Thanks,” he repeated. He hesitated for a second, then said, “You’re Banner, right?”

Bruce froze. So much for James not knowing who he was.

“Yes,” he said.

“Steve said I should talk to you,” he said, poking at his cake.

Bruce wasn’t sure where this was going. “Did he?” he said noncommittally.

“People like us don’t get a lotta therapists,” James went on. His accent was strange, a mixture of Brooklyn drawl and of something more crisply European. “But we can talk to each other. Said I should talk to Barton, too.”

When he saw Bruce’s confused look, he smiled, though it looked stiffer and darker than before. “I also have something in my head, doctor.”

“Oh,” Bruce said. Then he repeated, “oh,” because he really didn’t know what else to say.

James poked at his cake again. “I’m sorry. Probably not Christmas dinner conversation material.”

“No, it’s…” Bruce hesitated, looking at this quiet man with sad eyes. _Something in my head._ The Hulk shifted uncomfortably in his. “We can talk. Do you have a phone number or something?”

James looked surprised, then shook his head. “You can, um—call Steve. He’ll put you through. Thanks, I guess.”

Before Bruce could answer, Clint tried to steal his flute. “Tony said you had fake champagne. Is that good? Can I have a taste?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, then pointedly emptied his glass, staring at Clint all the while.

“Aw, c’mon,” Clint complained, then cheered up when Bruce poured some more and gave him his flute. Clint drank from it, then looked up with a grin and suddenly pecked Bruce on the lips—the bubbles felt like a spark of electricity between them.

“Not bad,” he grinned.

Bruce froze, then felt himself relax, slightly belatedly. There was no threat here. Tony was right: everyone already knew.

He kissed Clint back, more insistently, feeling the freshness of the champagne over the hotness of his lips. It was Clint’s turn to look a little flustered when they parted, and Bruce’s turn to smile at him. “Not bad,” he echoed.

He suddenly felt James’ eyes on him; but when he looked up, James wasn’t looking at him. He did look at Steve when he came back from the bathroom, though—looked at him for a long second, then looked down again and ate his piece of cake.

Bruce did the same. It was delicious.

 

*

 

“What do you mean, you’re going home?” Tony slurred. “We’ve got _plenty_ of rooms. They’re soundproof, too, so if you wanna f—”

“Aaand this is when you stop talking,” Rhodes said, pulling him away. “Good night, guys. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Clint grinned, then slung his arm around Bruce’s shoulders as they walked away from the Mansion.

The wind outside was sharp as a knife, but Bruce had his jacket, and he felt warm with food and drink and Clint’s body pressed against his. The sky was very dark beneath the orange sheen of the city lights. There was almost no one in the streets.

They trudged up two blocks in the snow, in companionable silence, until they reached their apartment building. Bruce was so grateful to see it his chest hurt. The windows were flickering with light. Everyone was celebrating.

“Do you know what time it is?” Clint asked quietly.

When Bruce looked up, Clint smiled at him. “It’s 1am. It’s the 25th.” His grin widened. “Looks like we made it.”

Bruce felt light and warm and golden like a bubble of champagne. Clint linked arms with his, stuffing his hand in Bruce’s pocket. “C’mon.”

The elevator ride was smooth and silent; they walked into their apartment and closed the door behind them, without turning on the lights. The Christmas tree was there, soft small lights blinking in the dark. Bruce couldn’t remember feeling so solidly safe—so solidly _home—_ ever before in his life.

They took off jackets and shoes, and then Clint was suddenly very close, very warm in the dark. “So,” he breathed. “Was that a good Christmas?”

Bruce swallowed. He was surprised to feel wetness on his cheeks, and Clint startled too when he leaned down to kiss him and his lips brushed tear tracks. “Bruce—”

“It’s okay, it’s—” Suddenly, he couldn’t bear even the few inches between them—he wrapped Clint in his arms, feeling something unfurl inside him, a tight knot of pain and sorrow coming loose for the first time. This was home, and this was family, a small messed-up family but family all the same, and he was so happy he couldn’t breathe. Clint looked like he understood and squeezed him tight, pushing his face into the crook of Bruce’s neck.

“Stop,” he said, muffled. “I can’t cry. They’ll take away my manly man card.” He wiggled in Bruce’s embrace, trying to reach out. “Lemme grab a couch cushion real quick, I’ll fix that.”

“Don’t,” Bruce laughed, gripping his hair to stop him. 

Clint would have probably answered, but the second Bruce pulled at his hair, he went boneless against him. “Mm.”

“Oh yeah?” Bruce asked, pulling at Clint’s hair with his left hand and scratching his nape with his right. Clint let out a vague inarticulate noise of bliss, then nuzzled into his neck again.

“That my Christmas present?” he managed.

“Feels like mine,” Bruce answered quietly.

He tugged more sharply at Clint’s hair, securing him in his grip. “How about getting down on your knees?”

Clint slowly knelt down, looking up at him. His pupils were blown wide in the very dim light, colors flickering on the planes of his skin. Bruce brushed his eyelids, making them flutter shut; brushed his lips which parted under his touch, brushed the curve of his cheek and strands of his hair.

“Wait for me?” he asked. “Stay still.”

Clint nodded, crossing his hands behind his back and taking a deep breath, then exhaling. Bruce went to the kitchen, grabbed the scissors and a bottle of water, then went into the bedroom to retrieve his duffle bag under the bed. He came back into the room, and his heartbeat did strange things when he saw Clint waiting for him on his knees.

Clint closed his eyes when Bruce knelt behind him and rubbed his shoulders. “Hey,” he whispered, and Clint answered “hey,” without reopening his eyes, leaning a little into Bruce.

Bruce let a minute pass, then reached into his duffle bag.

“So, um,” he said, “I guess _this_ is your Christmas present. I bought it a little while ago and… you don’t… you don’t have to like it. I can still get you a box of chocolates instead.”

Clint frowned a little when he heard the metallic jingle of the buckles, but when Bruce fitted the leather strap under his chin, he got it at once and whispered “oh, fuck, _yes”_ before biting down eagerly into the ball gag.

Bruce chuckled, then slipped the rubber ball further into his mouth, fitting it right, forcing his jaws slightly wider. He buckled it behind Clint’s head, going for a snug fit, then slid his hand to his nape. “Alright?”

Clint nodded so eagerly Bruce had to laugh again. “If something’s wrong,” Bruce said, “just shake your head really hard. Okay?”

He waited for Clint’s nod, then got out his ropes and tied his wrists behind his back. After that, he just let the rope wrap itself around Clint’s body, and followed it.

 

*

 

Later—how much later?—Bruce adjusted Clint’s body against him. Clint was sitting against him, with his back to Bruce’s chest, bracketed by his legs, wrapped in his arms. He was breathing deeply and soundly, eyes still closed, lips stretched around the gag. His harness was tight around his chest, digging into his shoulders and upper arms, with his legs folded and bound to his chest.

“Okay?” Bruce asked quietly. He peppered their scenes with these, small “okays?” to which Clint always nodded, just like he nodded then.

Bruce slipped his hands behind his head and unbuckled the gag. Clint let it slip out, licking his lips when a long string of saliva followed. His head was lolling against Bruce’s shoulder.

“Coulda,” he said, and his voice was floating, dreamy, “coulda kept it lon’er.” He worked his jaw, looking slightly surprised at how sore it was. “Ow.”

“I thought maybe not too long for the first time,” Bruce smiled.

Clint curled up into him. “Still coulda kept it longer.”

“Alright. Next time.”

They stayed together for a long time, just sitting there, curled up at the foot of the Christmas tree. They still hadn’t turned on the lights.

Clint squirmed a little, pushing his face up, and Bruce bent down to give him a kiss, just on the corner of his lips. He felt Clint’s smile and kissed it again.

“Merry Christmas,” Bruce said against his lips.

“And many happy new years,” Clint whispered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wants To Be Led Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3373391) by [Cristinuke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cristinuke/pseuds/Cristinuke)




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